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Cheyenne shook her head. “I don’t know. A guy on a motorcycle got sideswiped by a car, and he’s messed up really bad, please just send someone.”
“Before or after the Belgium exit?”
“Uh….” She scanned the deserted highway. Think. She had a horrible sense of direction. She knew landmarks, not mile markers. “Before, I think. The exit before the Dairy Cup and Grandview’s garage. He’s in the center of the right lane. There’s so much blood.”
“Okay, ma’am, I’m dispatching now.”
Cheyenne straightened from the car when she saw a shift in his leg. “Should I move him?” She glanced over her shoulder to the empty road.
“No, don’t move him, the ambulance is on its way.”
“Okay, just…” She gulped. “Please hurry, it’s really bad.” Her eyes welled, and she clasped her mouth with her hand.
“Hang tight, they are on their way.”
She nodded and clicked the phone, tossing it onto her seat. The ambulance would get there and fix him up. She sucked in a breath and sighed in relief. Help was on the way. She slowly stepped closer and squinted her eyes. Oh, thank God. She caught sight of the biker moving slightly, as though he was trying to roll over. She rushed forward and skidded to a stop inches away from him. He was on his side and a bloodied mess. She’d never seen so much blood. Even in movies, there hadn’t been quite as much blood as the scene in front of her.
“Don’t move. The ambulance is on its way, okay, just try to breathe easy, help’s coming.” She recited her words twice—once for his assurance, and another for hers. She bent down, dropping to her knees, carefully avoiding contact but remaining close to him. Her hands hovered over his side, unsure of how to help him. When he shifted, she gently guided him back to the ground.
Her breath hitched when his face came into full view. A thick stream of blood dripped down his head, over his eyes, and down his cheek. She followed the source and had to draw in a deep breath to combat her nausea. The deep gash across his temple and hairline was an open laceration displaying jagged flesh. So much blood poured out of the wound, it looked black rather than red. His body jolted forward, and she clasped his hand when he started to swing.
“Please, just calm down, I don’t want you to get more hurt, please.” His hand squeezed hers in a very faint motion, and she pressed her free hand against his shoulder, easing him back. He didn’t resist. He could hear her. This is good, talk to him. His hand moved slightly, and one eye peered open.
She strained a smile in hopes of calming him and leaned closer. “Just hang on, okay?”
His lips moved, and his tongue laved his bottom lip. His words were gravelly between his coughs. “My bike.”
He was concerned over his bike? She glanced over toward the embankment. She hadn’t seen it but didn’t need to. The drop was about a hundred feet. The chances his bike was intact were slim to none. She clamped her lips, squeezing them together tightly.
“They’ll get your bike once they fix you up, just hang on, please.” She sighed and whispered, “Don’t die on me.” She couldn’t be sure if the plea was for the man or God. She’d never witnessed anyone die, and she didn’t want to. He groaned and moved slightly as his hand gripped tightly against hers. She moved closer, swiping her hand against his forehead. “Just breathe for me, okay? Nice and steady.” She wiped the fallen hair strands from his eyes. “You’re gonna be okay, I promise. Just need you to hang on.” She cradled their clasped hands against her chest and forced a smile. He stared back at her with a dazed glimmer, but the corner of his lip curled.
She tightened her grip on his hand as a way to will him to stay strong.
His lips twisted, and she leaned closer. “Cops.” It came out soft but strangled.
Was that a request? She was sure the cops would come along with the ambulance.
“Yeah, they’ll come, and don’t worry, I have a good memory. I can identify the car and the license plate of the driver.” Her mind drew a blank, except for the Illinois license plate. She couldn’t remember the tag number. Shit. For the first time, she realized the car never stopped. She was so focused on the biker, she didn’t even know if the car had at least slowed down. It certainly hadn’t stopped, and there was no mistake he’d hit him. Maybe the driver called nine-one-one too. How could he not stop?
The man stared back at her, and his head shook slightly. His lips moved, but his words were mumbled. She leaned in to hear him better. With only a few inches separating them, she got a good look at the biker. She had been right about the age assessment. He was probably in his sixties, his face weathered and lined with deep wrinkles. His eyes were a soft brown and currently pleading.
His lips moved, and she blinked. “What?”
“Take it,” he said and then sucked in a sharp breath. His pain was so raw she could almost feel it. She waited for his breathing to settle. It didn’t. “My stomach.” He coughed, spewing up a wad of blood. She swallowed her breath and the bile threatening her throat.
“Take it.”
His short responses were choppy and mumbled, but she understood the gist of it. She glanced down at his tattered clothing, which had been ripped to shreds from the wreck. She lifted his leather vest. Her hand shook as she maneuvered beyond his blood-soaked T-shirt. A crumpled wad of what was she assumed was originally a manila packaging stuck out from the front his pants. The sirens caught her attention, and she looked past her car.
She grazed her hand over his forehead and wiped away the beads of sweat. “The ambulance is here,” she whispered with a faint smile. “You’re gonna be okay.”
A hard squeeze to her hand had her angling closer, only inches away from his bloodied face. “Take it.” He gasped a breath. “No cops.”
This man was asking her to take and hide a package from the cops? Oh hell no.
She shook her head and pulled away slightly, but his eyes drew her back.
He hinged forward slightly and grimaced. She eased her hand against his shoulder.
